Selective Memory

Over ride the heartaches and echoes of rain

I'm up to the beer and bones, wild nights in my past

come ghosting around and gone

Again nothing hears this sound

But a sunless sky and approaching Night.

Gray days good for pianos and candles,

at least I have a little something left

and I sit here in my broken pieces and let the smoke

waft through my short circuits and

frayed flags of the heart.

The wind will whip my self to me and I

will be allright, like that great old story I once had to write

and soon forgot, its pages flurried through that

sunless, wordless sky above.